


Yield

by IdrisSmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series 3, Sherlolly - Freeform, Through Series 3, post series 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4958389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/pseuds/IdrisSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His world was crumbling down around him. His friends targeted and the only way to save them was for him to die. There was only one woman he would trust his life with and perhaps, even his heart. Unfortunately for him, just like his crass nature, his timing was a bit not good as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yield

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank afteriwake for BETA-ing this story for me. Seriously, you’re a God send! And I would like to thank her for kicking my insecurities to the side as well, not quite out of the park, but -- Well, I am posting this, aren't I? Of course, her advice had been very helpful because I couldn't have done this one without her. I swear to God, I think I would have binned this story if she had not held my hand through several revisions.
> 
> This is a multi-chapter story. Set between Series 2 and 3 and will continue until after Series 3. It's basically me filling in the blanks and having a little fun. I should mention this was also inspired by someone who commented about the look Molly and Sherlock gave each other in the locker room looks like two people who had seen each other naked. What? I need to be a little naughty this year, my nice meter broke.

“I--I shouldn’t be here,” he said, regretting his decision the moment he saw her face. He could have gone anywhere, anywhere at all, but he found himself standing in front of her door at two in the morning. He really should not have been there. They should not be seen together; hell, he shouldn’t even be seen walking around. He was a dead man after all. But, he couldn’t help himself. Sitting in the safe house was driving him crazy. The security was tight, of course, but it was not without flaw. He managed to sneak away within hours of being placed under protective custody. The truth was, he didn’t even know why he was there, and yet he was.

And that was the most alarming thing about his presence in front of her door.

“Come on in. I’ll make you tea,” she said. Though surprise was clear in her eyes she managed to remain relatively calm and make enough room for him to slip into her flat.

He didn’t say a word but made the use of the space and stepped into her flat. His eyes scanned the room quickly, unable to help himself. Even with his reputation tarnished, he was still Sherlock Holmes. He noted the tidy space as he ventured further into the flat. She was just a step behind, closing the door as soon as he was inside. No words were spoken, but somehow he knew that she knew what it was that he needed in that moment: not a safe house somewhere but a familiar face. Someone he could trust which, given the recent events, the total of which he could choose from had significantly been reduced to two, and they both knew that Mycroft was not the most affectionate person on the planet.

“Have a seat. I’ll put on a kettle,” she said, fidgeting slightly, her tone awkward.

“Thank you,” he replied, even though he knew she could barely hear him as she had stalked into the kitchen, leaving him standing in the middle of the living room. There was not much to do while he waited save to roam around the space, which he did. He made his way to the dresser by the door to his left. His eyes scanned the pictures laid on it. Everything in the flat held a personal touch: crocheted covers, knitted frames, even the warm quilt thrown over the sofa. Two pillows were placed on one side of the three-seater.

She was expecting him. Or hoping. She knew him too well. It should scare him, and yet it didn’t.

A smile curved as he claimed a seat on the sofa, running his fingers on the comfortable fabric. It was hardly a comfortable fit, but he supposed it would do for the night. He had been imposing on her, after all, more than he should. And though he knew being there was putting her at risk, he couldn’t help himself. She deserved a goodbye.

“My Gran made those.” Her voice startled him, and he turned to find her walking into the room with a tray in her hands. “Just before she died.” He was up on his feet at once, retrieving it from her. His manners, somehow, had improved after his death. She didn’t protest, simply following him as he set the tray on the table and then sitting by his side when he did. Well, almost; she left a huge gap between them, sitting too far away for his liking. He should be concerned as to why he craved her closeness, but, for the moment, he wasn’t. “She made it from my old tee shirts,” she said, offering him an explanation even though she didn’t need to. “They’re the least flowery things I own.”

“It’s fine,” he told her as he handed her a cup. Of course he knew how she took her tea. “I had something like this as well.” He took in her look of surprise. “My mum made mine. They’re somewhere in my closet at Baker Street.”

She smiled, clearly appreciating the fact he was sharing bit information of his life with her. He was more than the brooding consulting detective in that moment to her. “Somehow I can’t imagine you as a tee shirt person,” she said with a soft chuckle as he retrieved his own cup of tea.

“As hard as it is to picture, Molly, I was a teenager once,” he said lightly. The humour in his tone, without a doubt, confused her, and that saddened him. Then again, he had only himself to blame. The crass comments, the indifference…she never had the chance to see beyond that, even if she did see plenty. She saw him like no one else could, and despite what people would like to believe, he was quite glad that she was the person who knew him, perhaps, better than he did himself.

A comfortable silence fell between them, like Sunday afternoons. He realized how he was never bored around her, even when the only thing they did was sitting in a lab, waiting for a toxicology report. He had never, even once, been bored in her presence.

She was looking down, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “Come back, okay?” her hushed request came moments later.

He placed his own cup aside before taking hers to join. Part of him wanted to just reach out to her, to tell her it would all be fine. He certainly never promised to be able to tear down Moriarty’s network, even if he were to die. Yet, he had to try, for the sake of everyone he loved…and especially for her, even if she didn’t know it. But he had run several variables in his mind and he was never one to make empty promises. “I don’t want to make promises I cannot keep, Molly,” he told her.

“Can you promise me not to die?” she asked, still not looking at him.

He sighed, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I can’t,” he said quietly.

She chose that moment to look up, knocking the breath out of him. Even with tears in her eyes, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And he realized, though he had continuously mocked those who said the word freely, that he loved her. He, Sherlock Holmes, was very much in love with Molly Hooper. And now he was leaving her to face a great uncertain future.

“Let’s pretend I actually had died today,” he said, even though he didn’t want to. There was no point of telling her to wait or that he loved her. He couldn’t ask her that much; he had already asked too much.

She shook her head. “But, you didn’t.”

“Molly,” he said, his tone low. “I might not come back.”

She reached for him, framing his face with her palms. “Then don’t go. Stay.”

He leaned into her touch. He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. Death had made him severely sentimental. No…he had always been sentimental. Towards her, _for_ her, he had always been sentimental. He wanted to stay; he wanted to stay next to her, he wanted to live for her. He just couldn’t. He had to leave to protect her, the most important person to him. If he stayed, it would be only a matter of time before Moriarty’s men found out about her and he would lose her. There was nothing he could do, save…

Neither of them remembered who started it. He was leaning close, a breath away from her and just like that, all of his walls collapsed at her feet. His heart was beating rapidly and she was gasping as their tongues battled for dominance. He was certain he could feel his heart hammering against his bones, threatening to break his ribcage. They were both clawing at each other’s clothes; his scarf was the first to go, his coat soon following, and then he sighed an unadulterated lust-filled sigh as her fingernails scraped his back.

He wanted more, he thought as he titled her head lovingly, planting soft kisses down her throat, though the couch didn’t seem like the place to continue. She deserved more, after all, so he nudged her up, pulling her close to him as soon as they were on their feet, him leaning in, she on her tiptoes. They continued with breathless kisses before she closed his fingers around his and she led him to the general direction of her bedroom. Their clothes fell away too quickly for either of them to overthink of the consequence of their actions. Even if they _were_ thinking straight, it was highly improbable that they would not proceed with the same course of action. By the time they made it to her bed they were nearly naked, with her in her bra and knickers and him with his shirt open and his trouser unbuttoned.

He lowered her onto the bed, and she was purring when he dipped low, nipping at the nape of her neck. He was sure it was going to leave a mark in the morning yet he didn’t care and he didn’t think she did either. “Sherlock,” she said, her voice shallow and breathy.

He grunted in reply, pulling her even closer to him, moving his lips lower as she arched up to meet them. In every touch and kiss, he tried to convey his love for her without saying the word. He worked on slowly divesting her of the last of her clothing, reveling in the sight of her. He was a dead man, yet, he had never felt more alive as he lavished her with all the attention he could, all the attention she deserved, until she couldn’t bear it any longer.

“S--so close,” she moaned, and he knew then the time for teasing was done. He quickly shed the rest of his clothing and joined her on the bed, covering her body with his, giving her what she was asking for, and giving into what he had been craving: her. Her moans increased in volume as the sounds of their passion joined it, and soon she fell over the edge, gasping in pleasure. He followed with her name on his lips, as if he was reciting a prayer.

Bliss. It was the first time Sherlock had ever felt truly blissful in his life and part of him wanted to hold onto it a little longer, just a little longer, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He had to leave her. Moments passed as their breathing settled and their hearts stopped racing, he rolled to his side and pulled her against him. “Don’t wait for me,” he whispered as he held her close. “Move on. Have a wonderful life,”

Her hot tears fell on his arm, her body was shaking, and he realized she was crying. The words he wanted to say hung at the tip of his tongue. It would be easy to tell her to wait; he knew she would do anything for him, and she would do it so selflessly. He just couldn’t allow it, though. And so he did the only thing he could: he planted a kiss on top of her head and pulled her closer. This was enough; he would take this much with him, and then he would let her go.


End file.
